


What Hands Do, What Words Don't

by JACmRob



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, haruhi is a good friend, jealous kyoya, kyoya has an inferiority complex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JACmRob/pseuds/JACmRob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tamaki's mother is dying and Kyoya doesn't know what to do with his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Hands Do, What Words Don't

“I need to borrow your family’s jet.”

Kyoya stares at the phone, wondering if this is just his best friend’s latest mad request.

But there’s an edge to Tamaki’s voice—a hardness that isn’t usually there—and it’s all that keeps Kyoya from a firm and adamant “no.”

“Details, please?” he implores instead.

“It’s important,” Tamaki says, and this time Kyoya can definitely hear the difference in his voice. It’s shaking. The tinny voice coming out of the earpiece of his phone sounds...afraid.

“Important how?” Kyoya sighs, hiding the worry in his own voice with his usual air of polite detachment. “I’m going to need more of a reason than that.”

There’s a pause. “It’s my mother.” And Kyoya’s heart clenches. Oh. _Oh_. “She’s very ill. She might not… Anyway, Grandmother knows I know, knows I’m trying to get to France. She’s cut me off from our own jet.”

“So you need to use mine,” Kyoya says softly.

“ _Please_ , Kyo. I need to see her. I don’t know if—”

“Of course. Under one condition.”

“Yes?”

“You let me come with you.”

Kyoya waits for Tamaki to object. Instead, his best friend, his golden prince, mumbles “thank you.”

“A car will be at your mansion in twenty minutes. They can come round the back if need be.”

“Tell them to wait a block away from the estate, on Forth St. I’ll be there.”

When Kyoya hangs up the phone, the twins are staring at him keenly.

“Who was that?” Kaoru asks.

“What’s he borrowing?” Hikaru joins in.

“Where are you going?”

The brats are bearing down on him and Kyoya’s pretty sure they saw the caller ID on his cell before he picked it up.

“None of your business,” he tells them. “I’ll be gone for a few days though, so don’t anything insane while I’m away.”

“It’s usually Tono who gets that lecture,” Hikaru says astutely. “Or is he going to?”

Kyoya doesn’t answer.

***

Tamaki is silent when Kyoya slides into the car, and it’s so wrong, so _un-Tamaki_ , that it almost seems like his driver picked up the wrong person.

“Take us to the family airstrip,” Kyoya tells the driver.

“You’d better hurry,” Tamaki murmurs. “I left a note for my father. He’ll tell Grandmother as soon as he finds it.”

“Idiot,” Kyoya says, before he can stop himself, because of _course_ Tamaki would leave a tragic Dear-John letter to his father, of course he wouldn’t have any sense in making is escape, no, the sense is Kyoya’s job and clearly Kyoya has been remiss.

Tamaki fiddles with the cuffs of his coat as the car speeds down the interstate, his golden bangs heavy in his face. He looks like he’s already in mourning, and Kyoya doesn’t know what to say; Kyoya has never been good with words, not words that are meant to be genuine, not with Tamaki, who demands his honesty, who tugs and stretches Kyoya’s heart in painful ways, who makes him feel nauseatingly vulnerable and somehow comfortable at the same time. _So you call him an idiot._

With a firm hand on Tamaki’s back, he steers the blonde across the tarmac and up the loading platform of the jet. They’re about to board when a second car comes screeching onto the airstrip.

“Shit,” Tamaki says, his face turning a shade whiter. “No, it can’t be them…”

“Get in,” Kyoya says urgently, giving him a push. “I’ll get this plane off the runway before they can get any closer.”

Only it’s not a small, spindly woman who steps out of the car, but five figures in blue blazers, and they’re sprinting towards the jet.

“We heard about Tama-chan,” Honey pants.

“And we’re coming too,” Haruhi says firmly.

Tamaki pokes his head out of the plane, and when he sees the rest of the Host Club, he looks like he’s about to cry. But a normal Tamaki would burst into flamboyant tears, a normal Tamaki would sing the praises of his dearest friends. This Tamaki just mumbles, “You guys don’t have to do this,” hands deep in his pockets.

“You’re lucky I’m so smart,” Hikaru says as they clamor into the plane, as though they’re all going on a lovely vacation and not to watch Tamaki’s mother die, “otherwise we wouldn't have figured it out in time to pack anything.”

***

It’s 12 hours from Japan to Paris, but Tamaki sits like a wound spring the entire time. They’re crossing into the Ukraine; Honey’s curled up with a teddy bear, Kaoru snores gently against his brother, and even Mori-senpai’s eyes are shut. Haruhi is still awake, with Kaoru’s big headphones over her ears, but her eyes look far away. Tamaki keeps shifting, like he can’t find a comfortable position, his fingers tap tap tapping against the armrest. Kyoya’s own eyelids feel heavy, but he can’t sleep with Tamaki’s narrow fingers dancing restlessly.

“You should try to get some sleep,” he says, touching Tamaki’s arm gently. The unspoken words hang heavy. _You don’t know how long you’ll have to be up—what you’ll find—when we get there_.

Tamaki bites his lip, and Kyoya realizes that his hand still rests on Tamaki’s arm. Unbidden, a memory rises up. A function for his father’s company, a private room in the back of some expensive club. The waiters relentlessly filling his champagne glass, until the buzz of alcohol made his face hot and his legs heavy. Tamaki’s hip pressing into his, laughing merrily at everything, hiccuping, spilling champagne on his tux, reluctantly tripping outside when Kyoya insisted on having a cigarette to clear his head (“You shouldn’t smoke, Kyoya, it’s bad for you”). Instead, he had stumbled, and Tamaki’s body had crushed into his. A drunken accident. But Kyoya’s hand snaking into his friend’s hair, pushing open Tamaki’s mouth, tongue darting in, hips grinding on hips—well, that hadn’t been an accident.

But wrong, Kyoya knew, so wrong, and he shivers at the thought of his father ever finding out. Boys don’t do that kind of thing with other boys. The thought has done nothing to stop him from wanting it to happen again. His cock twitches.

 _Not now_ , Kyoya warns, bringing himself under control. He pulls the hand off Tamaki’s arm.

“Our jet has a bed,” Kyoya says. “At least lie down.”

But Tamaki seems incapable of doing anything for himself; Kyoya pulls him to his feet and steers him down the aisle. He tries to forget how suggestive it feels when he pushes the blonde into the bed near the back of the jet, shucks down the crisp covers so Tamaki can wriggle under them. He turns to go but finds he’s tethered: Tamaki grips the cuff of his sleeve like a child clinging to a security blanket.

And Kyoya sits on the edge of the bed.

“I haven’t seen my mother in five years.” The words are quiet, like Tamaki’s struggling to get them out, and the un-Tamaki-ness of it strikes him again. Tamaki is never quiet. “Not even a picture. I know that she’s really sick… sicker than she’s ever been. I don’t know what—” He tries again. “I’ll see her and...and I’m afraid she’ll be—”

 _A stranger. Skin and bones._ Kyoya doesn’t know what to do in situations like these, doesn’t know how people respond. Not when they’re being real. He knows the words he’s supposed to say, but they stick in his throat like rehearsed lines. Because this is _Tamaki_ , and the words aren’t real, and Kyoya only is when he’s with Tamaki.

“We’ll be there in five hours,” he tries, “and you’ll get to see her. It’ll—it’ll be okay.” It’ll be okay? Really? Tamaki burrows his nose into the pillow, not looking comforted at all. _That’s not what he would say to me_. How does Tamaki do it? How does he have so many words, the same words as Kyoya’s simpering flatteries and social niceties, except when they come from him, they’re sincere? Not for the first time, Kyoya wonders if he was born broken somehow, missing some key set of instructions on how to be a human. And he wishes for a mad second that their roles were reversed, that it were his mother dying and Tamaki comforting him, because he knows how to be sullen and withdrawn but he doesn’t know what to do now.

He should nudge Tamaki over, crawl into the bed. Wrap his arms around the blonde. For once be the giver of the physical contact Tamaki so craves and routinely steals. But he sits, frozen, hovering like a shadow, and he feels confused and inadequate and sorry, so sorry, that he does not know how to be what his friend needs, that he wants to kiss Tamaki but is afraid to touch him at the same time.

***

The hospital isn’t like the Ootori hospitals, and Kyoya finds his nose wrinkling in disgust. The building is old, the halls are all made of cheap plaster and painted some bland color that looks a little like tan and a little like sickish pink. It smells—like sepsis, like bad air conditioning, like shoddy sanitation, like sickness. Kyoya hopes Tamaki doesn’t notice, doesn’t smell out the difference between quality healthcare and cheap practice like Kyoya, who’s been raised his entire life in the gleaming halls of Ootori hospitals.

 _She must have run out of money._ It makes him sick that Tamaki’s grandmother must know this, and looked the other way.

A nurse directs them to a room, where the door is closed and the blinds are down. Kyoya meets Haruhi’s eyes. She looks shaken.

“Do you want us to leave, senpai?” she asks.

Tamaki shakes his head. He’s visibly trembling, but he says bravely, “My two families should meet each other.”

And then he opens the door.

The room is dim, a wan lamp sitting on the bedside table. There’s a figure in the bed, so small that it’s almost hard to tell. They get closer, and Kyoya sees that it’s a woman—thin, feminine, and clearly once beautiful. Now, she hardly bears any resemblance to the woman Kyoya found in Paris all those years ago. Her hair—the same color as Tamaki’s—is thin and wispy, and her face is sunken, with cheek bones, brow, collar bones jutting out in sharp ridges. A tube runs up her nose, and another is attached to her arm.

Tamaki pulls a chair to her bedside and perches tentatively on the edge. “Maman,” he whispers, laying a hand on her arm lightly, hesitantly, like he’s afraid to touch her. And Kyoya feels afraid to touch him, like he’s so fragile he’ll shatter. This kind of touching is made for delicate hands, skilled and schooled like a potter’s. He hovers at the edge of the bed with the others.

The woman’s eyes flutter open. They are precisely the same shade of violet as Tamaki’s, and the matching pair fills with tears. Anne-Sophie’s face breaks into a smile.

“Rene.” She stretches a frail hand up to cup his face.

“ _Je suis venu vous voir_ ,” Tamaki whispers, his voice cracking. _“Tu—tu me manques_.”

“ _Oh mon amour, mon garçon doux_.” Anne-Sophie tucks a lock of Tamaki’s hair behind his ear, and the motion is so motherly, so intimate, that Kyoya has to look away. “ _Comment je vous ai manqué, ma chérie_.”

“Maman.” Tamaki presses his face into the woman’s side, to muffle the tears that Kyoya knows are there. She strokes his hair tenderly, murmuring endearments. “ _Mon chér, mon chér… J’taime._ ”

Kyoya shoves his hands in his pockets.

***

“I didn’t know,” Haruhi says quietly. They’re sitting in the hospital’s dinky café, drinking coffees. “That his mother was so sick.”

She sounds miserable.

 _She watched her own mother die too._ Haruhi knows how to how to help, what to say. Kyoya wishes he didn’t feel resentful about that. He sips his coffee, grimacing at the cheap, bitter taste.

“Anne-Sophie’s been sick all his life. Tamaki paints her as the perfect mother in his head, but I don’t think that was the reality of his childhood. You know how he likes to romanticize things.”

Haruhi frowns.

“And he really didn’t talk to her, not even once, after leaving France?”

“Not that I know of,” Kyoya says. “His grandmother keeps a pretty tight fist on communication.”

Haruhi shakes her head. “It must be so awful though…to have this sprung on him. To come and find her like this.”

Kyoya raises a curious eyebrow. “I had hoped Tamaki would’ve seen this coming.”

At that, Haruhi looks angry.

“Can’t you try to have a little sympathy sometimes, senpai?”

“Better for her to have died before he left France. Then he wouldn’t have to go through losing her all over again.” _Then I wouldn’t have to see him clutching her hand, clinging to some stupid hope that she’ll get better. Then I wouldn’t have to see his face once she’s dead. Then I wouldn’t have to claw for words and fall short_. But apparently, this is the wrong thing to say, like all the things Kyoya says when he’s trying to be sincere.

“How can you say that?”

“She was always going to die. It was only a matter of time.”

He can’t stop the words from coming out, and Haruhi slams her coffee cup down on the table. Brown liquid drips onto the linoleum.

“You’re really a jerk sometimes, senpai.”

“It’s the truth,” Kyoya says lightly, hating how this is his reaction. Tamaki’s mother is dying, and he’s angry—he’s _angry_ —that Tamaki is suffering because of it. As if he could compartmentalize Tamaki’s feelings, dilute them through the years of separation, because it’s the smart way to deal with pain. He pushes up his glasses. He doesn’t want Tamaki to be in pain. “I’m just trying to be rational.”

“No, you’re trying to run away from it,” Haruhi hisses. “Which is unbelievable, because he’s the one whose mother is dying, he’s the one who needs—”

She falls silent. Tamaki’s approaching them. His eyes are red, but somehow, he looks a little better.

“How is she?” Haruhi asks tentatively.

“She’s—okay.” Tamaki sits at the table. “She actually says she’s feeling a bit better.”

“That’s great, senpai.”

She offers him the rest of her coffee. Tamaki takes it, and Kyoya notices that his hand is trembling. Haruhi notices too, and she wraps her own tiny fingers around Tamaki’s.

“It’s going to be alright,” she says earnestly, and Kyoya’s gut twists. “You’re here now—what more could she want?”

And Tamaki smiles, just a small, drawn smile, but Kyoya’s resentment tastes even more bitter than his coffee. Haruhi knows the right things to say.

“I thought maybe I could introduce you guys. Where is everyone else?”

“Honey and Mori went to sort out a hotel,” Kyoya says. “And the twins are grabbing some decent food. They should be back any minute now.”

“You two can come with me now, if you like?” He stands up, looking between them.

“Of course,” Haruhi says.

Tamaki’s eyes meet Kyoya’s.

“I’ll stay. Someone’s got to wait for the twins, right? I’ll bring them up as soon as they get here.”

But he won’t, and Haruhi’s glare says that she knows, that he’s unbelievable, that he’s a coward…

***

The twins come back with a bag of pastries, half-eaten, and Kyoya directs them up to Anne-Sophie’s room. He he makes a half-hearted excuse about checking up on Honey and Mori when they ask if he’s coming too, and promises to be over soon. And then Honey and Mori show up, and he sends them away, and then he’s sitting alone in the cafeteria clutching his cold cup of coffee.

 _Coward_ , the voice in his head whispers. _You’re supposed to be his best friend, and you’re running away_. But best friends don’t want to sleep in the same bed, don’t want to crush their bodies together in a way that’s far more than just brotherly affection, don’t want to touch each other’s naked skin. Perhaps that’s the problem—that Kyoya wants to be everything for Tamaki, that his need is so powerful and confusing that it threatens to overwhelm him.

And yet he can’t. And yet he doesn’t deserve someone as bright and loving as Tamaki, not when he’s so clumsy and cold in returning the favor. Tamaki’s mother is dying, for fuck’s sake, and he can’t offer any adequate consolation.

 _Tamaki deserves someone like Haruhi_ , he thinks, in a wash of self-pity, _not someone like me_.

And there’s the long and short of it, a frustrating contradiction: he’s running away because Tamaki deserves better, and Tamaki deserves better because he’s running away. And Kyoya doesn’t know how to handle that. _Why did I volunteer to come in the first place_? Why? Kyoya can’t answer that.

He’s left with the question gnawing at his insides when Haruhi comes running into the empty cafeteria.

“She stopped breathing!” Haruhi shouts. “She might even be dead, and Tamaki’s freaking out, and you need to get your ass upstairs!”

He’s right behind her in the stairwell, stumbling over his feet, heart pounding in his chest. Everyone’s clustered in the hallway outside Anne-Sophie’s room, looking how Kyoya feels: completely out of their element and terrified. Tamaki’s pacing back and forth like a wounded animal, his hands clenched. There’s a nurse at the door, explaining that the doctors are doing all they can, that Tamaki needs to be patient, that Tamaki can see her when she’s stabilized.

“You have to let me in! Let me back in!” He spots Kyoya, violet eyes zeroing in so that Kyoya feels like he’s being x-rayed. “Kyoya—Kyoya tell them. They can’t do this, they have to let me in there, right? Tell them!”

 _Damn it you stupid idiot there’s nothing I can do, there’s nothing you can do, there’s nothing anyone can do but wait for her to die, that’s what you need to do, you need to wait for her to die, you need to_ —

Kyoya says nothing.

“Kyoya?” Tamaki’s voice breaks, and he’s looking at Kyoya like he’s the fucking _answer_ , like he expects Kyoya to save him, and doesn’t he see that Kyoya _can’t_?

Kyoya looks away. He’s saved seeing the betrayal in Tamaki’s eyes when the door to Anne-Sophie’s room opens. Tamaki rushes forward on shaky legs to meet the tired-looking doctor who appears in the doorway.

“What happened?” he demands. “How is she?”

“Mme. Grantaine went into sudden cardiac arrest. We were able to resuscitate her but she is unable to breathe on her own. We’ve attached her to a ventilator to help her breathe.”

The doctor steps aside so that Tamaki can stagger into the room. The others trail after him hesitantly, and Kyoya hovers at the threshold, his eyes on the lump of tubes and wires that lies unmoving on the bed.

“When will she be able to come off it?” The doctor takes a deep breath, like he’s been putting off delivering this news, and Kyoya’s watched his brothers enough to know what’s coming next.

“While we were able to resuscitate your mother, she has not regained brain activity. We are able to keep her body alive through artificial means but she will never be able to sustain that on her own.”

 _Brain death_.

“W-what can you do? There has to be something you can do!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Suoh,” the doctor says, in a voice that sounds like it’s trying to be kind but comes off as tired. “We hoped she would show some signs of brain activity after stabilizing, but unfortunately there’s nothing we can do.”

“You—you’re saying she’s dead? But her body’s alive! She’s breathing…that _isn’t_ dead!”

“I know this is difficult to understand, Mr. Suoh, but brain death is effectively the same as any other passing. While we can keep the rest of her body from receiving the message, we cannot restore function to her brain.”

“That—that’s not good enough!”

The doctor bows his head but says nothing.

“Do you know who I am?” Tamaki’s shaking, and Kyoya has never heard him use this tone of voice before. “I am the heir to the Suoh Group! I could buy this entire hospital from you if I liked! I don’t care the cost—whatever it is, I’ll pay it! Just save her.”

The doctor merely shakes his head, as if he’s seen this all before.

“Mr. Suoh, I’m afraid there is no medicine or amount of money that can help your mother. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Tamaki’s mouth gapes open and closed like a fish, but no sound comes out. The doctor seizes the opportunity to continue laying out his devastation, and Kyoya wants to rage at the man himself.

“As her only immediate family member, you may decide when to discontinue life support.” He pauses and then says again, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Tamaki’s blonde bangs shield his eyes. “Get out.”

The doctor takes the hint and bows from the room, but Tamaki isn’t finished. He turns to the rest of them.

“Get out. All of you, _get out!_ ”

Kyoya doesn’t wait to be told again.

***

Kyoya cups his hands under the tap and splashes cold water on his face. He rests his hands on either side of the sink and leans into the mirror, letting the water drip off his chin and into the porcelain bowl. It’s cracked, a web of brown stains spreading from the drain like a spider’s web.

Cheap, shitty excuse for a medical facility. He wants to get out of here, get away from that sickly-sweet antiseptic smell that makes his skin crawl and the humming air conditioning that can’t suck away the itchy humidity. It’s nearly four in the morning, and they’re still here, still waiting.

He cups another handful of water from the sink and pats down the back of his neck. He can’t get the image of Tamaki’s eyes out of his head, right before the doctor delivered the bad news. Their utter and unchecked _belief_ in Kyoya’s ability to save him. Kyoya stares at his reflection, dark eyes hooded by bangs, his hair greasy from running his hands through it so many times.

_Why do you see these things in me?_

Furiously, he turns away from the mirror. _Idiot. I can’t help you._

And he wishes he could feel apathetic about that, take it as coolly and logically as he takes everything else, but it’s killing him. Those stupid violet eyes. Tamaki’s mother tucking his hair behind his ear. Kyoya’s fingers itch to touch his friend like that.

Useless, useless, useless.

He kicks the nearest stall; its door slams open with a bang.

 _I want to be his lover, and I’m too afraid to even be his friend_.

Kyoya pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a few deep breaths to compose himself. He leaves the bathroom and wanders back under the fluorescent-lit hall to the waiting room. Hikaru and Kaoru are curled up on a couch, snoring gently. Honey’s fast asleep against Mori, who sits upright and stares ahead, unblinking. Haruhi, of course, is awake, fiddling with the peeling upholstery on her arm chair. She stares up at him when he collapses into the seat next to her.

“Save it,” he mutters, before she can say anything.

“You can stop feeling sorry for yourself, senpai. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself,” Kyoya growls. “That’s hardly appropriate.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Haruhi answers. “Especially since you have nothing to feel sorry about. Self-pity’s only useful when you’ve done something wrong.”

“What are you talking about?” Kyoya says, feeling more and more nettled.

“I thought about what you said,” she says. “At first I was mad. But you don’t fool me anymore.”

“And how’s that?”

But she just gives him a knowing look. After a pause, she says, “I’m going to see him. Come with me?”

“He told us to leave.”

“That doesn’t mean he wanted us to. I can tell he doesn’t want to be alone.”

“Then why don’t you go by yourself? It’s obvious you’re the one who knows what you’re doing here.” The words are biting, but Haruhi doesn’t flinch, and part of Kyoya wishes she would. “You said it yourself, I’m a jerk.”

“He needs you there.”

Kyoya shakes his head, wishing for some semblance of control while everything is falling apart around him.

“He doesn’t need me. What can I say? The one time he needs a friend and I don’t know how to fucking do it.”

“I see how you look at him,” Haruhi says quietly, and a barb of fear runs through him, because she can’t know, she can’t— “I see the things you do for him. So forget your stupid self-loathing and what you think he deserves. Just come with me and take care of him, like you always do.”

“I c-can’t…I don’t know—”

“You can.”

Kyoya’s mind is screaming that he doesn’t want to, no, he doesn’t want to, he can’t, he _can’t_ , but he swallows and nods. The walk to Anne-Sophie’s room feels like an eternity; the antiseptic smell of the hospital makes his skin itch. Haruhi pulls open the door and waits.

And Kyoya goes in.

Tamaki is curled up on the bed, an oversized child next to his waif mother. His head is tucked under her arm, which he’s wrapped around his chest, but her eyes are closed and she gives no sign that she feels her son’s presence. He’s rubbing his thumb in circles on her bony hand, humming something, and Kyoya wants to scream _stop! She’s dead! You have to let her go_!

The room smells rank, like acetone. Kyoya didn’t know that dying was so visceral, but he knows that he won’t forget the smell, and he’s sure Tamaki won’t either. A large tube protrudes from Anne-Sophie’s throat, attached to a machine that hums steadily as it pumps air in and out of her broken lungs.

He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s like his voice has deserted him. He clears his throat and tries again. “

Tamaki.”

Tamaki looks up and there are tears on his cheeks, and he looks so pathetic in his comatose mother’s embrace that Kyoya’s heart breaks a little.

“I can’t do it.” His voice is hoarse. “I-I know they said she’s gone, and I have to…but I can’t.”

Kyoya puts a hand on Tamaki’s back, clumsy, unsure. He looks at his friend, and he hopes his eyes say, _you can, I’m here, you can_.

“Come on,” he says softly, slipping his hand into Tamaki’s, gently pulling him so that Anne-Sophie’s arm falls away. Kyoya is vaguely aware of Haruhi hovering behind him, but Tamaki’s slumped forward like he’s dying himself, and Kyoya’s heart is pounding all the way in his throat with _what do I do, what do I do_?

Haruhi’s words echo in his head: _take care of him, like you always do_.

Kyoya grabs Tamaki’s hands and lifts him to his feet; the blonde boy leans into him so that his head is bowed in the crook of Kyoya’s neck where he feels dampness.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers, so that only Tamaki can hear.

Slowly, Tamaki nods.

Hands trembling, Kyoya finds the switches on the respirator and one by one, flicks them off. The machine’s humming fades to silence. The steady push and pull of oxygen through the tube ends. Kyoya watches with a horrible fascination as Anne-Sophie’s chest rises for the last time, and then falls, and does not rise up again. The heart monitor spikes weakly, and then flatlines. That’s it. No pain, no struggle, just the flick of a switch and she’s gone.

Tamaki falls back to the bedside and lifts Anne-Sophie’s hand, cradling it to his cheek. Kyoya doesn’t know how long they stand there, but he knows Anne-Sophie’s hand must be long cold when a nurse in pink scrubs drifts into the room.

“Tamaki,” he says weakly, “we’ve got to go. There are…things they’ve got to do…”

But Tamaki makes no move to get up. Haruhi slings one of his arms over her shoulders; Kyoya picks up her cue and takes the other. Together, they lift him from the bed.

Slowly, like some odd six-legged creature, Kyoya and Haruhi guide Tamaki back to the waiting room. The others are there, and they only need to see Tamaki, supported between Kyoya and Haruhi, to know it’s happened. Hikaru, Kaoru, Honey, Mori—they rush without hesitation to him, until Tamaki’s in a tangle of arms and heads. At that, Kyoya feels Tamaki dissolve into shuddering sobs.

“Thank you,” he chokes out. “For coming with me. You c-can’t know how much it means.”

***

They don’t leave him when they arrive at the hotel. They can’t. Instead, everyone piles onto the bed in Tamaki’s room, a big tangle of arms and legs with Tamaki in the middle, as if this wall of affection could keep reality from crushing in.

Nobody really knows what to say, but the rise and fall of seven exhales is enough of conversation. One by one, they drop off to sleep, the exhaustion of the past 48 hours taking its toll. Tamaki’s body is pressed up against Kyoya’s side, and the heat is distracting. He’s been awake for more hours than he cares to count and now he’s too wound up to fall asleep.

He rolls slightly, so that Tamaki’s body nestles against the curve of his own. He wants to run his hand along the span of Tamaki’s ribs, rest his palm against the warmth of the blonde’s belly. He wants potter’s hands, sculptor’s hands, instruments so fine and sensitive they can drain Tamaki’s world of pain with a caress.

He’s just got Kyoya’s hands.

 _Take care of him, like you always do_.

Maybe Kyoya’s hands are enough. And for the first time since this whole fiasco began, he doesn’t feel afraid to reach out. Tentatively, he wraps his arm around Tamaki’s side. The other boy shivers at his touch, and Kyoya realizes that he’s awake.

“Kyoya?” Tamaki whispers.

“Yes?”

“Are you awake?”

“Obviously.”

Tamaki rolls over so that their noses are nearly touching, blinking at him in the darkness. And then, without warning, he crushes his lips against Kyoya’s.

He tastes like salt and stale breath, and he bites Kyoya’s lower lip before plunging his tongue into Kyoya’s mouth. Kyoya can’t stop his body from responding, can’t stop the soft rumble in his throat when Tamaki’s hand clutches at his hair, tugging hard. The kiss is aggressive and needy and Kyoya can taste the grief in it, can sense how urgently Tamaki pushes onto his lap, and realizes for the first time that Tamaki’s want may overpower his own.

And then Kyoya comes back to his senses. He’s suddenly aware of how his cock is straining in his boxers, and of how inappropriate the whole situation is: Tamaki’s mother is dead and he’s probably half-mad with grief and exhaustion and the rest of the Host Club are sleeping deeply on either side…but now Tamaki is straddling his hips, grinding down so that the sheets rustle like the hush of breath.

And when Kyoya’s hands find the other boy’s hips and his thumbs press light circles on the skin beneath the elastic band of boxers, Tamaki jerks down on Kyoya’s cock— _hard_ —and the hitched breath that escapes him sounds as loud as a yell in the silent hotel room.

“Tamaki,” Kyoya mumbles against his neck, “We shouldn’t…”

But Tamaki shuts him up with another violent kiss.

“Need you,” he whines into Kyoya’s mouth, and it it’s too much, and Kyoya can’t stop himself from shoving one hand down Tamaki’s pants and using the other to pull down on his back so that their chests are pushed together. He wraps a hand around Tamaki’s cock—it’s hot and hard, desperate like the rest of him—Tamaki thrusts forward into Kyoya’s hand, bites Kyoya’s chin.

“Need you,” Tamaki repeats, but this time Kyoya can hear the sob, and it brings him back to earth, back to the place where Tamaki’s mother is dead and the cock in his hand won’t change that.

He pulls his hand from Tamaki’s boxers, and pushes the other boy away. The space between them feels heavy and pregnant.

“What’re you—”

“Shut up.”

In the darkness, he reaches up to Tamaki’s silhouette and cups his cheeks. Slowly, tenderly, he skims his hands through Tamaki’s hair, letting the pads of his fingers massage Tamaki’s scalp, tucking locks behind narrow ears. Tamaki goes still. Kyoya sits up and leans forward to press his lips to the bare skin of Tamaki’s shoulder where his t-shirt has slipped down. Softly, he ghosts a trail of kisses up Tamaki’s neck, his jaw, his temple. Kyoya tastes salt on his cheeks.

He pulls Tamaki onto his chest, and the other boy lets him, slumps forward like a ragdoll, buries his nose in Kyoya’s neck. And Kyoya traces his fingers up and down Tamaki’s back, rubbing small circles like he remembers his mother doing long ago. _I can be what you need._

Tamaki’s body seizes up; he shudders and his breath escapes in a whimper. Kyoya squeezes his arms tighter, and Tamaki presses against him so hard it hurts, so that his own body shakes from the other boy’s sobs. But he doesn’t let go. And he hopes his heartbeat says _you’re alright, you’re alright, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> TamaKyo will always be my OTP. Angst and angst and lemons forever. I love playing with Kyoya's head.


End file.
